


Ghosts

by orphan_account



Series: The Grieving Process [1]
Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-11 23:24:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5645599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joyce doesn't want to clean it up. It helps, she would say, helps her feel like she's still there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> A repost of a previous piece I've put up on Fanfiction, tweaked and cleaned up a little. The prologue to an eventual [Chasefield] series bec why not.
> 
> Written to Mt. Washington by Local Natives and Crosses by Jose Gonzalez, both from the Life Is Strange soundtrack. 
> 
> *03/27/16: REVAMPED. Very minor wording changes.

The sun shines outside. Strings of light beam into the room through the window, refracted into curtains of vague sunset shades, broken reds and oranges against the tattered, faded off-white paint of the opposite wall. Outside the air is chilly but only enough for a light jacket or a sweater. Passing cars hum past, once or twice a tree branch would scratch the walls or the windows when the wind blows too hard. But inside the air is still. Quiet, warm, stuffy. S _trangling,_ almost. The aroma of untouched coffee has died down moments ago. The brown liquid has stilled in the porcelain cup, cold, rejected.

Max sits motionless on thr wide mattress, messy like the room it's in. Clothes in one corner, CDs and magazines in another. Under the thing there are empty packets and burnt bits of papers that still smell like weed. The rest of the room is as haphazard: still the same state it was in weeks ago.

Joyce doesn't want to clean it up. It helps, she would say, helps her feel like she's still there. Helps her feel that little less empty somehow. And then she'd excuse herself to somewhere she knew she couldn't be heard crying. David wouldn't say a word, in or out of the house. He'd still scream, still throw that vicious scowl on when the kids at Blackwell would get on his nerves or break some obscure rule you wouldn't even see in the school handbook. But nothing more than that.

He checked on Max the first week she kept coming. He'd open that door to a narrow gap, stick his pallid head in, glare daggers at her while she sat silently on that messy bed. He'd do it two or three times whenever she was there. It stopped happening soon. Probably figured out she wasn't there to snoop or steal anything. The harsher thought is that he probably thought she was there to pick up any leftover weed.

The first time she came over, Joyce opened the door for her. Face tired, eyes almost swollen shut with crying. She smiled at Max anyway and ushered her in. Talked a little, nonsense that didn't matter, the weather, the news, the diner. Gave her some orange juice with her trembling unmanicured fingers, nails chipped and thoroughly chewed. Didn't even ask her what she was doing there, maybe she already knew. That first time, Max cried on the bed, curled amid the ghosts of familiar smells and precious memories. Memories that shouldn't even exist in this time.

The second time it was David who let her in. She went through photographs and notebooks, fliers in a dusty box and old to-do lists, the notes and snippets on the walls.

The third time, she went through clothes. The dresser, the closet, sorry pile of old clothes in the corner. 

The fourth time, CDs, music, old DVDs shoved under the bed along with old, ripped posters of bands long passed.

The fifth, secrets. Under the bed, false bottoms on the drawers, the messy little desk below the window. Hidden little containers in secret hiding places, graffiti on the walls scrawled then hastily smeared.

The sixth, there was nothing else to see.

Nor the seventh. Or the eighth, or the ninth.

Max would just sit there on the bed. Stare at the fading walls while the sunlight changed colors in the room around her. Smiles when either Joyce or David would come in to hand her some coffee, all three of them faces of exhaustion and melancholy. The coffee would sit on the bedside table and then cool.

And then Max would cry, all broken words and whispered sobs and shallow breaths. Her heart would punch to her throat, a lump of muscle wrenching itself apart in her body, twisting and breaking with the scents and sensations in the room. Here there was music. Here there were smiles, laughter, jokes in the day and hushed whispers in the dark. Fond touches, trembling fingers and gentle palms. Secrets told in small glances. 

Kisses, flavors like violet storm clouds and meteor showers and vibrant colors smeared on the horizon. Like stars sprinkled on the summer sky or snow falling in the winter, songs and promises that wouldn't end. Fingers and tongues, sheets rippling and sticking to flushed skin, the rush of blood whisked onward by warm fingertips.

The only sounds are her choked sobs and broken syllables, sticky mouth mumbling apologies and excuses that don't make much sense. The skin of her face is sticky and taut against her skull, cheekbones starting to jut underneath the hollow of her eye sockets like curls of boulders underneath a gushing waterfall. Her pulse rings in her ears, the tears nearly blinding her when she tries opening her eyes and blinking. The sunset swoons. The colors in the room disappear and the night comes, breathes life into long dead stars twinkling over the town.

Arcadia Bay. Arcadia Bay is safe. Unbroken, unaware.

The room sinks into a vague sort of darkness, the glow of the street lights outside leaking in through the window. When Max stands her knees buckle somewhat. Her sleeves wipe off the mess on her face and she sniffs the rest of it away. Blinks a few times in the dark, brushes her hair with her fingers as best as she can.

She doesn't lock the door when she leaves the room. Doesn't look when she passes David down the stairs even when he mumbles a _thanks_ for visiting again. Joyce meets her when she heads for the front door and they share a small smile, both with drying lips, trembling at the corners.

A bus back to Blackwell is scheduled fifteen minutes from now. Max opens the door for herself. The night is cool and quiet, and as she steps out into it she glances over her shoulder. Says like she has been saying for the past week and more:

"See you again tomorrow, Joyce."


End file.
